None, yet. I still can't believe I'm writing this.
by NOT a Happy Mango
Summary: I'm afriad I've joined the trend of Legolas romance fics... le sigh... I hope it isn't average, seeing that I'm quite morbid and hate mushy love stories...Please, be patient... it may resemble a decent story someday! Really!
1. Into by Legolas

When people imagine my mate, the word "beautiful" is almost always present. Many think that I am beautiful, and would therefore desire someone of a similar sort. That may be true with humans, but it is not for me. Please try to remember that I am an Elf. We have standards that are a bit higher than the physical features you find pleasing. I have loved in my past and she was anything but "stunning". Yet... she was perfect. She was not a rare dark elf, nor a petite blonde human. Her hair was a mousy brown and she had the grace of a duck. She did not possess the willowy bodies you dream of and she could not carry a note to save her life. She was kind, yet had a quick temper and a mouth to match. Yet, she was and will always be the quintessence of perfection for me. Her name was Ereda.  
  
Being a son of the King of Mirkwood, you may be able to assume the enormous number of dull and exhausting matchmaking efforts I've had to survive. It seemed to me, in my youth, that my father was bent on destroying me with some simple-minded buffoon. I did not care for women the way my brothers did. They were strange creatures that I did not wish to pursue. Chasing after wild boar seemed so much easier back then. Frustrated with my stubbornness, my father sent me to live with his brother in a kingdom to the west of us that to this day has remained very much secret. I had been overjoyed and yet annoyed at my exhalation. Glad to be rid of those giggling, eye-batting fools yet angered that he felt I was useless if I could not benefit his reign. But, he had never been given a reason to love me. I was his son, true, but he was the King of Mirkwood. His duty was to his crown, not to my siblings or myself. There was no reason for him to look at my marrying as more than a contract  
ensuring the safety of his kingdom and for that dedication, I hated him.  
  
So it came to be, that I, Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood was cast from my home and sentenced to years of torturing amongst my cousins. I remember when my company first rode up to their borders. Lonely and gray, they were. An eternal fog clung to every rock, hill and tree. You'd see nothing but fog, if you were not aware of the kingdom hidden within. The first thing that was visible to my eyes was a long tower that shot straight towards the heavens. It was round and went to a point at the very top. A small rail could be seen near this point, making it appear as a balcony. This was the main tower. Short stubs that seemed to yearn for that height yet lacked the ambition to achieve it were covered in shadows from the Great Tower, along with the ever-present mist. Instead of housing a square main shape, a sphere had been created instead. I had been told that the majority of the castle had been, in fact, dug straight into the rock it was placed upon. I still shudder at the  
thought of living underground. These relatives had once been forest-dwellers like I, but had long ago traded the freedom of the wood for the security of the earth. My party rode solemnly towards the gates, as if in a funeral march. I tried to fill my eyes with the beauty and life of the fading woodlands but found my eyes were looked tightly on the main gate. It was a cruel metal contraption. Twisting iron danced its way into fierce dragons and many-eyed monsters of legend and myth. My father's servant, Melros, quickly leapt from his horse and made his way to the gates from which I felt I'd never return. Two guards spoke briefly with him and then led us forward. Inside the walls of the city were no different than the outside: cold, hard stone, merciless and unforgiving. The fire that had so often burnt ferociously in my heart was flickering to a dim glow. As the guards yanked the door shut, I felt I wanted to scream and yet was mute. My blood felt cold. I was trapped. There  
was to be no going back now. With what I then thought to be a brave sigh, I turned my head from the past and began to walk stoically into my future. 


	2. in which Legolas is quite spoiled royal ...

A/N: Oh, whoa, I forgot the disclaimer. Eeps! Well, obviously, I'm not the Great One, J. R. R. Tolkien and I sadly don't know him. But if I did, I'm sure he'd be nice enough to give me a hobbit or two. Anyway, thanks to my reviewers (Three already... wow, I feel talented! Seriously! Anyway, on with the still nameless story... any ideas for a title would be greatly appreciated. Uhm... if I use it, I'll put you in someplace? ::shrug:: worth a shot...  
  
Time went by, as it always does when you are miserable, at an alarmingly slow rate. I suppose I could have been a bit warmer towards these distant relatives, but why? Months flew by. The seasons changed. Life is horrible when you're an immortal and you're unhappy. It's said that we, the Elves, can die of grief. I must have been very close to death, indeed, with all of my pathetic sulking. My uncle and his three sons did seem somewhat interested in me. Thinkáno, the middle son, was the most sincere in his efforts towards my happiness, I would later learn. The complete opposite of Thinkáno would be the eldest, Iaurgon. Unfortunately, my youth and my bad judgement got the best of me, for it was not Thinkáno that I befriended, but Iaurgon. Many perverse and very un-princely things we did together and I am now quite ashamed of every one of them. Once, I recall that we set the tunic of a stable boy on fire. We found it hilarious. His elder sister, one of the kitchen servants, did  
not. The line of curses she gave to us gave her nothing but a sore throat and four days without food. Iaurgon throw hot coals down the girls dress, I later learned. I also learned that it was Thinkáno whom helped her to heal those horrid wounds. We never picked fun at the Elven servants. In Vefalas (as my uncle's kingdom is called) their were very few Elven servants and they held rather high positions under my uncle. Besides, it is much more fun to play with humans. They are such funny little creatures. Back then, I recall comparing them to flies - annoying as orcs, but great fun to pluck the wings from.  
  
One day, when Iaurgon and I were riding through the barren countryside we happened upon a little old man, bent quite a bit and clinging to a staff for support. He was rather hard to see, his gray cloak and hat matching the god-awful mists, and we nearly ran him over. Iaurgon shouted to the man, who was obviously human, to watch where he was going. I remember laughing with Iaurgon as he nudged his horse into the man. We expected him to fall and shout out in pain, like the weakling all humans were, but he didn't. In fact, the horse, for the first time in my memory, did not obey his master. The old man slowly lifted his head toward us. A chill ran down my spine at the power I felt running through him. Our horses apparently felt it as well, for Iaurgon's went wild and ran off as quickly as it possible could. Mine, in an attempt to follow, bucked high on his back legs. The last thing I remember from that day is a swift breath of air flying up at me as a fell from my steed and the  
man's eyes digging into my heart. 


End file.
